Well, a bit of a blip in the radar there. Please disregard that previous post, as it was obviously made by some psycho pretending to be Jacques. Impossible, since he’s dead, ha ha. I on the other hand am clearly not dead, contrary to what has been stated. In fact that whole last little missive there was just a big ugly package of lies that deserves to be flung bodily into a pit of all-consuming hellfire. Also, it seems recovering from Irish Steeping Lungfoot Plague confers an immunity to poison from mushrooms, besides possible immortality. So that’s okay.
Anyway, this wasn’t what I really wanted to talk about. It turns out that while you’re pretending to be dead in order to exact a ferocious and fatal revenge, you get a lot of time to think. Some people might find that a little boring, but I always enjoy having a little time to ponder and reflect on things. For example, I spent this time considering what kind of things I would do if I was working the late night shift at a McDonalds with two other fun-loving fellows, and the night manager had to go home to feed his sick kids or something. And if we had flights booked the next morning for better-paying jobs on other continents. So without further ado:
Make History On Your Last Day Of Work, Kids!
So, myself and my two willing pals are kicking around McDonald’s at 11:37 at night. For convenience, we’ll call them Alf and Whitaker Hodgkins. We hit a lull with zero customers, so we have a little time to prepare. First we gather up a bunch of ketchup and splatter it all over the visible areas of the kitchen, plus a bit on the counters and floor and walls and stuff. Whitaker Hodgkins then cuts his uniform to shreds with scissors and covers himself in splatters of ketchup, the poor kid, while Alf and I apply a bit to ourselves. We also get a couple knives and coat them in the sticky red stuff too. Now Alf and Whit conceal themselves in the back, while I stand patiently at the front counter.
Enter the fourth character in our little drama, who we’ll fondly refer to as Mr Victim. He’s wearing a slightly disheveled suit. He’s tired. He’s out past his bedtime. He’s discontented with life. He’s hoping a slab of beef soaked in saturated fats will fill the aching void in his soul. He saunters into McDonalds at 11:58 and heads straight up to the counter. He curtly requests a Big Mac with Extra Fries. At that moment he notices the red sticky substance scattered over everything. Before he can do a double take, I say:
“Sorry, man, but all our burgers are soaked in blood right now. Some unfortunate experimentation with salad recipes resulted in the creation of a virus that rapidly spread through the facility and turned most of the staff into flesh-eating zombies. Alf and I managed to disable them all with knives, but I’m afraid the food got a little splattered. Alf’s just standing guard in the back right now in case any of the zombies get up again. I think the apple pies are good, can I get you one of those?”
Mr Victim’s gaze drops to the red and sticky knife I’m fondling on the counter. His mind starts processing possibilites:
1. He is a psycho.
2. This is an sick joke.
Before Mr Victim can grope his arms around option 2, Alf unleashes an absolutely bloodcurling scream from the back. It goes something along the lines of “heeeeeeelllppararagagagghghhhh!” He then drops a good clot of ketchup onto his throat and slumps lifelessly into view. (Alf’s a pretty good actor, luckily.) Moments later, out staggers Whitaker Hodgkins. His eyes are glassy. He walks with a limp. His jaw is slack. His arms are moronically outstretched. He moans pitifully. Here’s the kicker: In his hands he clutches a Big Mac with Extra Fries, all soaked in ketchup.
This is the part where we hope Mr Victim’s instinct is to run screaming for several city blocks before he remembers he has a car. If he has more of an Ash Williams reaction to the fleshy undead, we may be in for a spot of trouble.
The only other flaw I can think of is that the plan calls for enormous amounts of ketchup. If the McDonald’s stock isn’t sufficient, we may require a fourth participant willing to sacrifice an artery or two.
